


His

by johnsjumpers



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-16
Updated: 2012-04-16
Packaged: 2017-11-03 18:55:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnsjumpers/pseuds/johnsjumpers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For all his hidden cameras, all the diplomats he had under his thumb, all his resources, there was nothing Mycroft Holmes could do to stop the man his brother loved from marrying a woman who would never feel the way Sherlock did about him in her life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His

After three years, John had learned not to bother arguing when any one of Mycroft’s seemingly unlimited unmarked black cars pulled up and beckoned for him to get in. If he kept walking and tried to ignore it, the car would follow him along the street, door hanging open, until he was forced to get in just to stop the people staring. This time was no different. He slid across the seat and stared straight forward. The brunette, the one who called herself Anthea was sitting, typing away on her BlackBerry as always. She offered up a soft, sympathetic grin, silently apologizing for her boss’s unconventional scheduling methods. John politely returned the expression, and went back to watching the crosswalk ahead. His thoughts wandered as they drove along, and he scolded himself for perking up when he saw a man in a long gray coat coming out of a café. It had been more than two years, and still the sight of a blue scarf or a particularly messy set of brown curls made his heart ache. He turned his head and tried to think of something, anything else. Mercifully, the car slowed in front of a parking structure John couldn’t help recognizing, and stopped when it reached the second floor. Anthea waved him out. John pulled himself from the car and strode towards the familiar shape waiting across the floor. 

“You know you can still call me. I have a phone. Two, actually, and a letterbox,” he called out.

“Dr. Watson,” The man returned, “Fancy meeting you here.”

John sighed. “Can I help you?”

“John, I’m surprised. Can’t a friend congratulate a friend without coming under suspicion?”

“We’re not friends.” John replied, curtly. Mycroft looked away. “And if you wanted to congratulate me, you could’ve sent a card. A whole bunch of people did. Really, they’re right between the Birthday and Anniversary shelves. 

“Yes, well, I’ve never been one for the more, shall we say, pedestrian ways of conducting business.”

“Business? This is business to you?”

“Isn’t everything?” Mycroft replied thinly. John winced. The last time John had been calmly abducted walking home from work, he had been in a particularly bad mood, and had spent several minutes shouting at the British Government for being removed, unfeeling and completely heartless. Mycroft hadn’t reacted at the time, but John knew he had hit a nerve. Those were the same insults he had flung at Sherlock when his pragmatism became too much, and Mycroft knew it. 

“I simply wanted to express my congratulations to you and Miss Morstan.” John deflated a bit, and looked up guiltily, embarrassed by his behavior.

“Thank you. I’ll pass the message on to Mary. Now may I go?”

“That, as always, is up to you, Dr. Watson.” They both knew it wasn’t. John turned to walk away, fully aware he would be interrupted. For all they had argued, Mycroft and Sherlock were extraordinarily similar. If Sherlock didn’t have the last word, Mycroft would. 

“You know, the vows you will recite in a few months state that you will love and cherish her until the day you die, but I can see from your left hand that’s not going to happen.” John stiffened. He turned and marched back towards the elder Holmes. 

“What’s that? Is it the tremor?”

“John—“

“Do I have some sort of scar?”

“John, --

“How the hell can you tell something like that?”

“John. You don’t wear a ring.”

“Yeah, well neither does Prince William”

“Mary does.” Mycroft intoned, as if that explained how he knew.

“I’m well aware of that.” John bristled “She is engaged.”

“So are you. But you don’t wear a ring. You’re completely comfortable marking her as taken, marking her as yours. But you don’t let her do the same.”

“What’s that?”

“You won’t say you’re hers.”

“Why is that?” John continued “Enlighten me.”

“Because you’re his.” John stopped. 

“Are you trying to tell me something?”

“John, we both know what I’m trying to tell you.” John moved to ask again, but couldn’t bring himself to. He did know. Everyone they had known seemed to see it. Just his luck that he couldn’t until it was too late.

“Mycroft. I’m marrying Mary. I wouldn’t be marrying her if I didn’t love her. Now please, stop trying to tell me how to run my life.”

“I don’t tell you how to run your life, Dr. Watson, just like I don’t tell him how to run his.”

“Didn’t.” John corrected him, automatically. “Just like you didn’t tell him.” As painful as the past tense was, the present seemed even worse. John waited for a nod, some sort of acknowledgement that Mycroft recognized this, but the man stood stock still. He didn’t quirk an eyebrow, or raise his head. John repeated himself, more loudly this time. “You meant to say ‘like I didn’t tell him how to run his life.’”

“John, you’ve known me for three years. How many times have you heard me say something I don’t mean?” John reached for the chair a few feet to his left. He hadn’t needed it for years, and yet every time Mycroft arranged one of these clandestine meetings, the chair was there. John wasn’t entirely sure he could stand, so he didn’t. 

“Say that again.”

“You heard me.” John faltered, unable to string the thousands of words rushing around in his head into a single coherent sentence. Mycroft went right on, “Now Dr. Watson, if I’m not mistaken, the envelope in your left jacket pocket contains the security deposit for the chapel, which is due this evening. I suggest you let my driver take you: you have approximately twenty-six minutes until the rentals office closes, there is a considerable waiting list for the date you have reserved, and there is no way the Underground will get you there in time. You should hurry, but please, do consider what I said.” Mycroft gestured to the driver, who pulled the car forward. Somehow, John managed to remember right, left, right, left and let himself fall into the back seat. He waved faintly to Mycroft, and closed the door. For twenty-four minutes, it was all he could do not to chant /present tense present tense present tense/ out loud. The thoughts raced around in his head, /he’s alive/ making steady circles, with /where?/ popping up intermittently. But one thought thundered around making it almost impossible to focus on anything. /Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock/. Anthea had to shake him out of his trance when they pulled up to the office in front of the chapel. He gestured his thanks and tumbled out of the car. John steadied himself, breathed in deeply, and started walking.

**********

Mycroft sat on the bench outside the car park, waiting for the car to return. 

I’m still here, A  
-MH

I know, we’re coming  
-A

Mycroft rested his head in his hands. He knew the doctor was clever, his brother had seen it too, but when a certain redhead started spending more and more time at Baker Street, he had had his suspicions about whether the man was a complete idiot as well. Mycroft was a worrier, always had been, and Sherlock was just lucky enough to be the subject of most of his fussing. When the good doctor showed up, Mycroft knew that there was no way he would just be transport to his brother. As Sherlock and John grew more comfortable with each other, it became clear that the idiosyncrasies and flaws of one perfectly complemented those of the other. Everyone around them saw it. Sherlock had seen it too. John, on the other hand, seemed oblivious.  
Mycroft laughed. He wasn’t used to being out of control. But for all his hidden cameras, all the diplomats he had under his thumb, all his resources, there was nothing Mycroft Holmes could do to stop the man his brother loved from marrying a woman who would never feel the way Sherlock did about him in her life. This odd, abandoned car park meeting was Mycroft’s last chance to make John see. He shook himself from his reverie and stood to greet the approaching car. He opened the door and smiled thinly at Anthea as he sat. She nodded sympathetically, as if to say ‘you tried your best’. Mycroft knew it was cruel, trying to make a man realize feelings for someone he thought he watched die, but it was even harder to see his brother watch the man he loved move on. He knew Sherlock was holding out hope that one day he’d be able to come back, but if John continued on the path to a white picket fence, 2.5 kids and a dog, there was no way Sherlock would fit into his life when he did. He was dreading the message he would have to send in the next few minutes. He would usually have called, but he didn’t trust his voice not to betray him. Sorry I just let the man you love walk away forever –MH. Sorry I didn’t try to make him stay -MH. Sorry, he’s gone –MH. He was rescued from his thoughts by a manicured hand on his knee. 

“Sir?” a gentle voice said. “Mr. Holmes?” He sat up. 

“Yes, Anthea?” 

“I’ve got something you might want to see.”

“If it’s work, I really don’t want –“

“Sir.”

“What?”

“This.” Mycroft looked down. On the seat next to him was a crumpled envelope with ‘6pm Friday’ noted on the front in John’s stereotypically poor handwriting. Underneath the deadline, John had scrawled ‘Thanks’. He glanced at his watch. 6:24. He looked back at Anthea, who was doing an embarrassingly bad job of hiding her glee. She broke out into a grin, and for the first time in months, so did he. Maybe the call he had to make wouldn’t be so bad after all.


End file.
